Seeking Solace
by SperryDee
Summary: A collection of GrimaEowyn drabbles and oneshots unofficially dedicated to Auri Mynonys
1. Light

III. Light

She is my light. Her hair is liquid moonlight, her eyes as blue as the sky just before a storm, her skin pale as the clouds. Her soul shines with a beauty that is beyond compare, as if her spirit were that of some noble, ethereal creature, trapped in the body of a mortal.

And she's strong, like a lioness, like an eagle, something far too fair for even my silver words.

She is the light, and I am content to remain in shadow, as long as her light but falls upon me.


	2. Dark

IV. Dark

I see him there, in the darkness. He's always in the darkness, watching me. He's watched me for a long time…I know, and strangely, I don't mind. I'm used to it, or rather, I've long ceased to mind, if ever I did. His gaze, it comforts me; his whispered words, silver to my ears, they soothe me. His presence in the night, it eases my dreams and calms my troubled mind.

Everyone has darkness, and he is mine.


	3. Seeking Solace

Dedicated to auri mynonys, who let me use a portion of her amazing fic, 'Traitor', as my entry for Interpretive Prose in Individual Speech Contest. I don't get to go to state for it, but I got very nice comments. Auri is really awesome for letting me use her work, and you all should go read it. And prod her into updating 'Traitor'...I have a bet with Dulcie riding on the outcome of the next chapter...and I don't want to lose $10. ()()

V. Seeking Solace

Oft have I sought solace in his arms. He holds me, comforting me while I cry, his soft lips erasing my tears one by one with their gentle kisses. He whispers words of reassurance, sometimes, but most often, he listens, listens to my rage and my pain as I cry myself to exhaustion.

And then, I am too weak to move. But it is not needed. There is untold strength in his lithe frame, and he carries me to my bed – or his – to rest. Sometimes, more often than any others would ever guess, he stays with me, placing chaste kisses upon my neck, my throat, my collarbone. His arms hold me tight, as if he were afraid to let me go – and I hold him with equal passion.

Wrapped within his arms, I feel safer than anyplace else in the world. In his arms am I truly content. He is my respite, my solace, my comfort…my Gríma.


	4. Words

Another chapter for the euphorically eloquent Auri Mynonys, who wrote such a splendid review! Enjoy!

(On an entirely unrelated note, I was watching Tales From the Crypt this afternoon, and who was guest starring? Brad Dourif! And he was shirtless in one particular scene! Oh, how I wished I had Tivo, so I could have recorded it! sighs I'll just have to content myself with One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest... drools )

grímagrímagrímagrímagrímagrímagríma

I am not a man without knowledge of my own limitations. I am not a specimen of physical perfection, nor am I a valiant swordsman. I am not a fine warrior, and I am not a man born to the horse.

My gift is words, and aren't words more perfect, more versatile than any other thing? A sword is limited to war. Words can kill just as surely, but words can also heal. Words can kiss, seduce, enthrall, enchant. Words can paint a picture in the mind more vivid than any tapestry. Words linger on after all else is lost.

With my words I can caress you, cocoon you, turn your heart towards mine. I can show my love a thousand times, the sincerity of each whisper of adoration etched upon your mind. With my words I can tell you just how splendid you are, how the slightest brush of your fingers upon mine sends me into transports of joy.

With words you rebuke me, yet with words you sink into my embrace, giving in to my whispers of comfort and of undying love. With words I bind you to me, more surely than any sorcerer's spell. With words I make you mine, and you profess your love to me. With words, our minds unite, a prelude to what will come to pass in physical form.

With words, I have power. With words, you are mine, wholly and completely. With words, I am yours in all meanings, all possible definitions of those singular words. With words I create a world for you and me to slip into, a welcome respite from harsh reality.

With words, all things are possible.


	5. Silence: Take One

I don't own. Please don't sue.

One of two written for the 'Silence' prompt. Enjoy.

Silence

Silence hung in the air, an unspoken agreement 'tween the two. No sound, no words, for it was only under that illusion that their arrangement could exist. If there was sound – a mutter, a gasp – the illusion would shatter.

It was denial, they both knew. As long as neither spoke, they could pretend it was all a dream: the nightly meetings that grew to blissful slumbers in each other's arms. But any denial by moonlight was preferable to truth in the light of the sun. And true to word, no matter whose room they spent the night in, the other was gone long before dawn.

By daylight, she was the unapproachable princess; he, the lusting servant. But by night, it was she who was the supplicant; she who, fleeing from nightmares, had crawled into his bed, seeking the comfort of his embrace, a comfort only night could bring.

The next morning, he had sought in her eyes some confirmation...some sign; he found none. She acted as ever towards him, and yet, three nights later, she had sought him again in the late hours of the night.

They reached their arrangement through an unspoken game of cat and mouse. He would press the boundary, she would retreat, until both understood the limits. By night, they slept entwined; by day, they were on opposite sides of an impassable divide.

And so it was in the kingdom of Rohan, between the White Lady and her Dark Counsellor.


	6. Silence: Take Two

XV. Silence

It would be all right, as long as he was silent. As long as he didn't say a word, didn't make a sound, everything would be fine.

A sound would mean acknowledgement of what they did, late at night. A sound would mean that neither could deny their meetings under the stars, or in secluded rooms of the palace. The comfort given and received, the strange love that blossomed in what began as an 'arrangement'.

She had not loved him, not at first. She didn't love him. That's what she told herself. By night, in the soundless unions, she was his. But by day, the night's events were but a dream, a denied moment of weakness, something to be ignored. At least, until moonrise.

When the sun rose, she could deny her love for him, and was again the icy maiden that haunted the halls of Edoras. She could ignore his words, his whispers, his stares. Sound had no place in their romance. When the sun rose, she could pretend she did not love him...she had to.

He loved her with every fibre of his being. She knew that, deny it as she often did. And he accepted that. It would not do for a princess of the Golden Hall to love a worm such as himself. And as long as he kept silent, there, in the nights they spent together, she would be his, if only by moonlight.

She had grown to love him, he knew. He saw the way she looked at him, glances that seemed to some to be of revulsion, but he knew the truth that lay behind the mask. He knew the icy glint in her eyes was just a thin shell, covering the passion that lay beneath. He knew that they would never be allowed to wed...he dared not even dream of it. By day, he longed for her, and she refused him. By night, they entwined, giving themselves to each other over and over again.

Everything would be all right, as long as he didn't say a word.


	7. Grey

Don't own, so don't sue. Inspired by the weather we've been having lately...the river's overflowed...again. Fields are ponds now...and there are ducks EVERYWHERE. I love spring!

19. Grey

She stood outside, staring at the greying sky, as wind tugged at her hair and the folds of her dress. It had started to rain, a cold drizzle enough to dampen the air and anything it touched, including her. She stood there, staring at everything and nothing; at the sky and at the rolling plains of grass, at the green shoots barely peeking above ground in this cold spring.

The rain increased, and still she stood outside, the water soaking her to the skin, whipping her hair around her face as the sky filled with clouds that were grey, like the sky. It seemed to be dusk, instead of near-noon, as she knew it was. And she stood there like a statue, staring.

At last she saw it. A black horse and rider against the world of grey. She focused on him, her eyes following him until at last, he strode up the steps to her and wrapped his arms around her. "My lady…." He whispered. "Have you waited so long? You're soaked through, chilled to the bone."

She knew his words were true. Her flesh was as cold as the ice that was her heart. But his touch brought heat throughout her entire body. "Gríma," she murmured, sinking into his embrace as he pulled his cloak around them.

"Sssh, ssh," he soothed. "Let's go inside, into the warmth."

She nodded, and followed him into the hall, a dot of gold against the black, a dot of black and gold against the grey day.


	8. Under the Rain

If I owned Gríma and Éowyn, LOTR would've gone a lot differently. It didn't, so obviously I don't. Q.E.D.

XXX. Under the Rain

"Come inside this instant, milady, you'll catch a chill!" the maidservant warned, scolding from the doorway.

Gríma watched his beloved stand on their balcony, face upturned to the rain, a wide smile on her face. "You may leave, Isaura," he told the maid, walking outside to join his wife.

"She's been nagging me ever since she saw me out here," Éowyn muttered, sinking into his warm embrace, feeling him behind her. "I like the rain."

"I know." He held her close, inhaling her scent. "Besides, if you become cold, there are many ways to warm you up," he murmured in her ear.

She laughed. "I recall well those ways, milord," she said, turning to face him. "If you remember, that's what caused this." She placed her hand on the swell of her belly, almost six months with child. "And this little one is keeping me warm enough. It's like having a furnace inside me…"

Grima kissed her softly, placing a hand on hers as they stood under the rain, getting drenched but hardly noticing. His beloved Eowyn as his wife, their child on the way…at moments like these, Gríma firmly believed he was the luckiest man in Arda.

Eowyn smiled against his chest. "I believe I have had enough of the rain for now…I think I shall accept your offer of 'warming up'." She looked at him coquettishly, and he chuckled.

"As my lady commands."


	9. Tears

I don't own. Please don't sue.

XXVI. Tears

Éowyn wept, alone in her room. Theodred was gone, Éomer banished, Theoden ill, or mad, or both, she didn't know which. She just knew that she was utterly, utterly alone.

A knock on her open door. Her head rose from her pillow and she turned to face the doorway. It was Gríma. "I thought I told you I wanted to be left alone," she asked, her voice chill as frost.

"You did," he replied thoughtfully. "But I have the feeling what you want and what you need are two different things." He entered the room, kneeling down beside her bed. "It does not do well to give into despair, Éowyn."

"Why should I not? I am alone, and Rohan will fall."

"You are wrong, milady. Rohan will not fall," he reassured, tilting her face up with a gentle finger. "And you are not alone." He kissed the tears from her cheeks, his touch as light and soothing as the wings of a moth. Her lips parted, in a gasp or to speak, she wasn't sure herself, but he kissed her before she could think.

Surprising herself, she returned the kiss. Passionately, he kissed her, wrapping his arms around her as she pulled him to sit beside her upon the bed. Their kisses intensified as they fumbled with each other's clothing, before he pulled back suddenly.

"This cannot happen," he said, disentangling himself and standing. "I will not be your downfall as well as my own." With a look of immeasurable pain in his eyes, he turned and swept out of the room like a shadow, leaving Éowyn alone.

Once more, in the solitary emptiness of her room, Éowyn wept.

She wept not just for him, but for herself as well.

--


	10. Night

XXXII. Night

"Your words are poison," she spat and dashed out of the room. Gríma watched her go, her footsteps echoing down the hall. He would leave her be…for a while. The night was still young.

Éowyn made it to her chambers before collapsing upon her bed, weeping. His words were true…she knew it as well as he. For all his lies, he had ever been truthful to her. She cried not only for Theodred, but for her cursed fear.

When she looked at Gríma, she saw his love for her: like a wild horse, fighting at the rein to be let free; like fire awaiting the slightest touch of oil before consuming all existence. It scared her. She scared herself. She could not…would not give in…would not admit that she loved him just as fiercely. She couldn't.

She didn't know how long she lay there, curled up in a tangle of blankets. But she heard him, felt his presence. "I came to see if milady was all right," he said softly, entering the room.

"I'm fine," she muttered. She knew he didn't believe her.

"Are you sure?" He placed his hand upon her shoulder.

"Yes," she said through gritted teeth.

"Very well. Goodnight, my princess." Silent as a shadow, he slipped from the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

The next day the riders came, and Gríma left. As the dark rider on his dark horse sped off across the plains, he took a piece of Éowyn's heart with him, a piece she hadn't known she'd given until it was wrenched from her at the sight of his leaving.

How she regretted turning him away that night! How fate laughed! And how she wept.

Only the night heard her screams, and it gave no answer.


	11. Precious Treasure

XXXVI. Precious Treasure

There was a box, carefully hidden, in the bottom of his garderobe. A small box, yes, and unremarkable to the eye, but in it, in that box, his treasures were kept.

It was a strange collection of objects: a scrap of delicately embroidered white cloth; a small phial of scent, a sheaf of drawings of a lady, and wrapped in a white handkerchief, a few strands of golden hair. Simple objects, yet to him, they were as precious a collection of treasure as any king would envy, for they had come from his beloved.

She did not know he had these things; doubtless, she would be unnerved by the thought that the dark counsellor kept mementos of her in his room; mementos taken surreptitiously from her chambers, or where she had passed. He kept them all the same.

In the garderobe of a room in the palace, carefully hidden by garments and furs, there was a small, unremarkable box. The outside was plain, but the inside held her treasures. Oh, not the sort of treasures one would think; no gems, no coins, no objects of great worth to anyone but her. Just a few tokens, mementos. Yet in her eyes, they were precious, and even more so for the fact that only she knew of them.

A scrap of black velvet, perhaps from a cloak; a rose, red as blood, now dried, yet still full of scent and memories; a piece of silver wire taken from the smith's forge, bent into the shape of a runic g, a symbol of his claim on her, though the pendant was of her own making; parchment notes written in a distinctive script; a wood and crow-feather pen, stolen from a desk, its end still bearing the bite marks of the man who had used it while pondering some serious matter. The items in the box were her treasures, moreso than any golden circlet or silken gown. Those items, some stolen, some found, some made…they all reminded her of him.

Parallel treasure troves, rooms apart yet akin in the items contained and the spirit in which they were kept, and of the loves that were kept within.


	12. Eyes

XXXVII. Eyes

His eyes fascinated her. His mismatched eyes, his eyes that seemed to pierce her to her very core and leave her exposed and bare. His eyes, always staring, always looking at her, even when she couldn't see his gaze, she could feel it, a shiver down her back both cold and unnerving yet warm and enticing, sending pools of warmth flooding into her belly.

She dreamed of his eyes. She dreamed of his stares, his ever-present watching, like a hunter stalking its prey, just waiting, waiting for the chance to pounce, to capture, to devour.

And what if he caught her? Trapped her in his ice-blue gaze, advancing on her like a serpent, enthralling her and claiming her as his own? Would she resist? Part of her said yes, she would resist until her dying breath; but that part seems small, insignificant at the moment. Another part, a greater part, realizes that she would give in, succumb to her captor, to his eyes, to his hands, to him. And that wouldn't be so bad, perhaps, she muses. To live in his stare, his eyes the color of the sky after rain, to be worshipped even as she was trapped, as he circled around her, gazing, whispering, enthralling.

It wouldn't be so bad.


End file.
